


shadows

by chrysanthes



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:02:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28652442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chrysanthes/pseuds/chrysanthes
Summary: Randvi stepped forward, the sound of her leather boot against the wooden floor broke the silence, followed by her voice. “Hytham, there is food in the longhouse. Won’t you join us?”A glance. “Please do not take offence to my absence — I have not been hungry as of late.” Hytham spoke quietly, with care, words thick in his throat. The delicacy of his words almost rung familiar, like they were stood once more upon faraway docks.// Spoilers for main story.
Relationships: Hytham & Randvi
Comments: 7
Kudos: 29





	shadows

**Author's Note:**

> shout out to my friends who have been sending me nothing but angsty thoughts. this one is for you, you know who you are.

Autumn had fallen away to a blanket of dazzling snow, the trees stripped bare of brazen orange and leaving black branches to strike harsh against overcast skies. Days like these were timeless, no sun to direct the people of Ravensthorpe as they went about their business. Only guided by her daily routine could Randvi reason that it was beyond mid-afternoon, and it would not be long before night would befall the settlement. The promise of warm food and stories and mead lessened the blow of the miserable English weather.

Anchored as she always was to her regular haunt, Randvi made several efforts to engage with the menial tasks available to her, vacillating between letters and reports and the odd request from the local townspeople. Yet nothing was pressing nor urgent and could not keep her mind from drifting to the worries that simmered persistent in her chest. Eivor had returned from Norway without Sigurd in tow, with her face stricken and gaze averted as she spoke of Basim’s apparent betrayal. 

She had spoken her words at Randvi in a one-sided conversation, as if an answer laid hidden within a linear recollection — one that would string the events together with some sense. But it did not, and within a few days, Eivor had departed to Hamtunscire with a sullen goodbye. It had become standard procedure, for Eivor to heed the many calls of England, but Randvi could never bring herself to worry less every time she watched the boat of brash warriors sail away with song and cheer. Especially now.

It was a bittersweet thing to Randvi, knowing she played a part in the politics of such mighty kingdoms, and yet she could not be acquainted with the faces nor the sites nor the battles of the land. All she knew were mapped borders that were haunted by the ghosts of lords and kings. Bittersweet too, as she had come to learn, the way that the dynamic and fate of Ravensthorpe could change across a ruthless sea in a land no longer home. On darker days it felt cruel, her mind sharp, but not always needed, and her voice welcome, but not always present.

Basim had occupied most conversations as a subject rather than as a participant. Hardly a feast went by where neither Eivor nor Sigurd did not find themselves discussing the man, often with great enthusiasm and admiration and excitement. Every time Hytham had spoken of Basim — after a mug or two of mead had loosened his tongue — it was with a shine in his eyes and a smile at his lips. He’d steady himself against Randvi as he spoke of their time in Constantinople, a vibrant city where Basim would advise and encourage him to hone skills as a so-called Hidden One. 

From what Randvi could understand, the role of an acolyte was little more than a glorified assistant, yet Basim seemed to have had taken great pride in Hytham. Evidenced not only by his guidance of Hytham as a shadowy warrior, but the stories he would tell of Basim teaching him more trivial things — like the tricks of a chessboard — or the tales he would spin to Hytham of the world he had travelled so extensively — how Rome stood proud among her former glory, or the stretch of the eternal Nile River, or the blooming Iberian city of Cordoba.

It had always been endearing thought, the image of Hytham sat with wide eyes as he hung onto Basim’s every last word, spoken so well that Randvi could hear him woven deep into Hytham’s words as he spoke his retelling. A habit formed beyond the festive nights of celebration, and upon quieter days the two would sit together and Hytham would speak of Basim, and Randvi would speak of Sigurd and Eivor. An unspoken consolation of two minds who had no choice but to shadow the more ambitious among them.

Hytham had not been present at meals since Eivor’s return, trained well in his ways to allow himself to sneak in and out for enough sustenance to push him through another day, and all but once Randvi had not noticed him. A single time she had seen a flash of white in the shadows, gone unnoticed by her companions who had their faces trained to the bottom of their mugs or wrapped up in a grandeur reminiscence of the throes of battle. But Randvi had seen him, grabbing a plate of food with his hood up and his head down. There was a flash of a second where Randvi thought they had made eye contact, but if it were so Hytham made nothing of it, and as quietly as he had entered, he left.

When he had arrived to the docks of Rygjafylke, shy and obliged to his mentor’s side, Randvi was not convinced the boy had seen his twentieth winter. His face remained serious and restrained, but it was also unscarred and without crease nor wrinkle. Randvi had little reason nor opportunity to speak with him up until he had injured himself in a folly attempt to best Kjotve, and she had taken to aiding him in his recovery. Since then, Randvi had found herself protective of the boy, more so as his timidness thawed. Seasons passed before Hytham had spoken to her beyond an instinctive politeness and indebted gratitude, and Randvi was delighted to learn that he had a competitive streak, indulged in an occasional bout of mischief, and held a softness for just about any creature that roamed the land.

The clatter of plates and chatter broke Randvi from her musings, and the distant square of the longhouse door was coloured a dull blue. Night had settled early and heavy. Without tidying her clutter of papers, Randvi approached the hall to begin her meal when a neatly folded blanket caught her eye. Freshly washed by a kind resident — a Saxon woman — who warned of colder nights ahead. Of course it was an unnecessary precaution for Randvi, her tolerance hard weathered by unforgiving Norwegian winters, but she accepted the gesture with grace all the same.

As she stared at the blanket, hefty and woollen and dyed patriotic blue of the Raven Clan, she considered that not all of the residents would consider this climate mild. English winters were not biting but they were damp, and it took very little for the cold to settle into one’s bones should they be without proper insulation. Nodding to herself in approval of her own plan, she picked up the folded blanket, entered the food hall and littered a plate with bread and vegetables and — with the help of Birna — placed the plate upon stacked fabric and made her way to the bureau.

A path had emerged in the snow during the course of the week, reminiscent of the dirt footway that laid beneath the wintered ground, so well trodden and compact that Randvi was forced to shuffle with caution. Every few seconds the plate would wobble as a threat, and Randvi would stop and shift her weight to will it back to the cushioned centre. A tedious journey, but one that met an end with a bureau that emitted gentle light.

“Hytham?” Randvi's announcement was more so for Hytham’s benefit, hoping to signal her arrival as courtesy. After a few seconds had passed, she stepped into the doorway.

The room glowed red, the flame-light flickering against the dyed carpets that were patterned with intricate designs — none the same, but all echoed one another. It made the room feel warmer as the night air fell away beyond the threshold, the winterscape of Ravensthorpe painted behind Randvi, framed by sturdy wood. Hytham was sat at a desk, a single piece of parchment set out before him. He did not look to acknowledge Randvi. His features were shadowed without direct candlelight, but Randvi could see well enough that his eyes were glassy, darkened circles bared his troubles before his words could.

Randvi stepped forward, the sound of her leather boot against the wooden floor broke the silence, followed by her voice. “Hytham, there is food in the longhouse. Won’t you join us?”

A glance. “Please do not take offence to my absence — I have not been hungry as of late.” Hytham spoke quietly, with care, words thick in his throat. The delicacy of his words almost rung familiar, like they were stood once more upon faraway docks.

“I know our food is not to everyone’s liking,” Randvi smiled softly, although he did not look again. “But we can make something else, if you’d like.”

“It is fine, thank you.”

It was a polite dismissal of the conversation, one that Randvi would pay no mind to. She placed the plate upon an uncluttered table, and held the blanket to her heart in the embrace of her arms as she crossed the room to Hytham. He did not look, nor move, nor speak, and she found herself stood over him with eyes gliding to the paper before him.

Addressed from one Mentor Reyhan, Randvi did not have to read far before she understood the contents of the letter as a single word stood out to her in an instant. Basim.

She did not to read the rest.

Hytham remained still, making no effort to obscure the paper from Randvi’s eyes. The room was quiet, muffled sounds of conversations in the far distance and the occasional crackle from a lit flambeau. There were no words of comfort she could offer, nothing in that moment she could say that would bring him a sense of closure to pacify whatever nameless transgression Basim had committed. She seated herself next to him on a bench, just wide enough for two, but made only for one person.

It took a long moment before Randvi found any words to say. “Perhaps the same affliction that scourged my…” _Husband_ did not feel right. “…that scourged Sigurd had taken hold of Basim too.” In an instant she cursed at herself inwardly — such words would only bring more confusion.

Sigurd and Randvi were never meant to be — Randvi had known that the second she laid eyes upon him. But as it were, she was fated to be with him, at least for a time — it was with him she settled in the twisting rivers of Mercia, and in the heartland of Mercia she had found her family — her true clan and her calling. Knowing that he was roaming the long forgotten lands of Norway without purpose tightened her heart with anguish. She may not have loved him as a husband, but she loved him as family, as she did Eivor, and as she did Hytham.

And as she might have loved Basim, if she had come to know the same Basim from the stories shared over warm food and mead.

“I don’t understand,” Hardly a whisper peeped from Hytham as he swallowed as he shook his head, his features tightening as he geared up to speak again. But all Hytham could manage, with a choking sob, was a repetition. “I don’t _understand_.”

He spoke with a brush of anger that would almost suit a fist slamming against the table as punctuation, and perhaps it crossed his mind as his fist curled into a tight ball, but his chest pushed another sob as he exhaled with defeat. Arms folded atop the oaken desk and he pressed his forehead down. Shoulders tensed, but they did not shake, and Randvi placed a hand to his back and rubbed her palm against the pristine fabric of his robes.

“Neither do I.” It was not much, but it was all she could give.

Silence was strained as Randvi did not hear a sound emit from Hytham. A cheer erupted from the longhouse — perhaps Yanli had finally made good on her threat to devastate Rowan in a drinking contest. Dissonance rang sharp, to hear such joyful rowdiness while Hytham laid still and silent upon his arms. A flicker of wilded flames disturbed dancing shadows as a cold gust of wind shot through the bureau, knocking loosened scrolls to the ground with the faintest of thuds. Enough to stir Hytham who could not help but to sit up and look.

Dim light did not sufficiently hide the glisten of Hytham’s cheeks. Red flush blotted his face and with shaken haste he dragged the insides of his wrists down underneath each eye. His eyes, often bright and wide but now heavy and dull, flickered to Randvi before he looked down to his lap where he had dropped his hands. His fingers plucked at skin as he spoke.

“I don’t — I mean, it doesn’t make any sense. Basim would not have done this, he — he loved them. He loved me, I —” A confession Hytham did not intend to make, but with a shake of his head he pressed on. “— I loved him. He would not have done this, Randvi. I know he would not have done this.” _Whatever it was_ , he did not say.

It was an awful thing, to hear Hytham’s voice grate as he tried to keep his grief tethered to his chest. Especially as it was in vain, gasping at every pause with shaking, blubbering breaths as he refused to look at Randvi. She pushed a sleeve over her fist and used a knuckle to dry his dampened cheek. When he did not recoil, she moved her hand to do the same for his other. 

“I know. I know it doesn’t.” Theories could only end in a murky stalemate — no one could reason why Basim would have attacked the siblings, and there was no chance Eivor would have slain him without reason. There was so much neither of them knew, left only to guess and ponder and anguish over what might have yet could not have been.

“They — my brotherhood — have asked me to return, to commemorate a new rank they wish to bestow upon me,” Randvi knew little of the work Hytham did, he had been unable to indulge her curiosity but she understood enough that such ascension was not an easy achievement. She frowned as he shook his head. “I cannot accept it. I can’t,” He cast his eyes to the doorway before lowering them once more. “It would be a betrayal. I do not even know — I don’t know if…”

He gave up on words that seemed reluctant to spill, so she ducked her head to draw his averted gaze to her. Whatever concern he held was true and honest and she smiled as gently as she could. “They are right to call upon you. You have earned it.”

“But Basim —”

“— would have been proud.” Randvi interjected with the only absolute she knew. Hytham frowned, and she realised that the furrowed lines remained even as he softened his expression.

She sighed before continuing. “Look, I don’t understand what happened, I don’t think Eivor does either. But whenever he spoke of you — I know. It was nothing short of pride. He did love you. Of course he did, he always has.”

To definitively define Basim as gone or present was not, and might never be, possible. That brought its own kind of pain, a lament of a bond unbroken but lost — but one that could be sung, and that was all Hytham needed. A cue to grieve, a single focal point of clarity that could carry him forward.

Night was making a valiant effort to claim the bureau as candlelight dithered, textiles losing their vibrant colour to the shadows of the room. Hytham shivered, so Randvi shifted to recover the blanket that had crumpled from her lap to the floor. Two hands fumbled with corners until she had managed to drape the woollen blanket over them both — balancing the weight so it would not slip back as she let go. Without prompt Hytham leaned down into her side and pressed his face to the front of her shoulder, jasmine incense had soaked into Hytham’s hair and the aroma brought solace to Randvi. Her arm did not pull back, instead remaining around his shoulders.

She pressed a chaste kiss to the top of his head. “It will be okay.”

It was a sudden release, his arms curling around her chest and his body breaking into a soft shudder. Aside from the odd whimper that did not muffle into her clothing Hytham was without sound, but the way her shoulder dampened and his fists bunched tight into her wool tunic was all too telling. So she grabbed the corner of the blanket with her free hand and wrapped her other arm around Hytham, pulling him into an embrace and enveloping them both in the warming blanket.

Moments passed, the world outside fell silent as the people of Ravensthorpe retired their day and gave way to a sound, collective sleep. Distant owls called to one another and the unfortunately named — at least in Randvi’s opinion — wolf of Ravensthorpe howled long and loud. A sound that unnerved most, but to the people of the town it had become a soothing melody. Again, Randvi pressed her lips to his hair with a kiss.

Shuddered breaths began to calm, and Hytham gently pulled himself away to rub at his face. “I’m sorry, I —”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Randvi shook her head as they separated a little. She cast her eyes to the ceiling. “There is something about this place, Hytham. This land — it seems to bring out the most in people. Whether it their best or worst, it doesn’t matter. It always finds a way to unravel them.” Her eyes fell back to Hytham, his eyes already trained on her. Listening.

A sniffle without tears. “And you? Do you feel it has brought out some untapped potential from within?” His words were unsteady, but they were lighter.

A quiet laugh escaped her as she closed her eyes for a brief moment. Expecting herself to answer with a modest shrug, she spoke. “It is difficult to tell. But when Eivor returns, I will have driven my dagger into every corner of England and this land will be hers. In a way, it will be mine too.”

Eivor, of course, would return in triumph, as she was always fated to. Even with the most bitter of victories.

“Ravensthorpe is lucky to have you.”

“And I am lucky to have Ravensthorpe.”

A wobbling smile captured Hytham’s mouth, and Randvi pushed back the wet hair slicked to his cheekbones. 

“Promise me something?”

Hytham blinked at her, eyes still bleary and puffy, and nodded — agreeing before he had even heard the conditions.

“Promise me you will attend tomorrow’s feast. I don’t think I can hold off neither Birna’s nor Vili’s insistence that we teach you, and I quote, how to dance like a true _Víkingr_.”

A request Hytham would have politely declined had they been stood amongst the frozen landscapes of Rygjafylke all those years ago, a withered shadow of his former mentor. But now the mellow skies of England reigned above them, and Hytham laughed — the sound congested and his face remained reddened in splotches — but it was still a laugh and he nodded again. “I will attend. You have my word.”

“Good.” Randvi pulled him a little closer, his head dropping to rest on her shoulder. She cradled him and began rocking the both of them side to side. It was a wordless lullaby, but it helped the night pass a little easier all the same.


End file.
